Rain fell in silver sheets, whispering against the manor's windows like secrets trying to slip inside.
Caelum lay awake in his room, long after the candles had guttered out. His thoughts were a restless sea, and in his hand, he still clutched the small charm Elowen had given him — a delicate silver flower threaded with a ribbon the color of dusk.
It pulsed faintly, like it remembered warmth.
She'd shyly handed it to him just before they parted at the library yesterday, brushing her fingers against his for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"It's a protection charm," she'd mumbled. "They say Thorne flowers hold power."
He'd almost laughed at the irony. If anything, she was the one who needed protecting—from the people who whispered behind her back, from the future that the original novel had planned for her, from the fate that painted her a villain.
And maybe, from himself.
His eyes slid to the small notebook on his bedside table.
The page still shimmered faintly:
System Initialization: 4%.
Not 100. Not even 10.
Just four.
But somehow, it felt like the ground beneath him had shifted.
He closed his eyes.
And slipped into a dream.
At first, there was nothing. Then—mirrors.
An endless maze of glass, each panel pristine and sharp, showing reflections of himself that didn't quite match. He turned his head—and saw another version of himself turn slower. Another turned faster. One had eyes like silver. One wore noble robes. One stood taller, shadows clinging to his figure.
He spun around. The maze surrounded him. No end, no beginning.
Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned.
There was no one.
But then—
"Do you want to be written…"The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, smooth and steady, like it had been waiting for him forever."…or be the writer?"
He froze. The mirror in front of him rippled.
A dozen reflections shifted. One smirked. One bled. One had nothing behind its eyes.
"What is this?" he asked.
A pulse ran through the floor.
"Do you want to be chosen… or stolen?"
He turned in a full circle, heart thudding.
Suddenly, a child version of himself appeared in the mirror — wide-eyed and smiling. That reflection flickered, then transformed. Older. Wiser. Colder.
"Stop it," Caelum said, fists clenching.
Another mirror cracked.
"Do you want to lose her… again?"
The glass shattered, every reflection shivering into glittering fragments, and for a breathless moment, he fell.
Fell through memory and fear and something else.
He awoke with a violent gasp, sweat on his brow, the sheets tangled around his legs.
The charm in his hand was warm now.
And glowing.
He turned to the notebook.
A new page had filled itself with writing, spiraling outward like veins through a leaf.
You have glimpsed the self you were… the self you may become.Progress: 7%.
Below that, a single glowing question pulsed faintly in the dark:
Who do you want to be?
Caelum stared.
There was no sarcasm in that question. No command. No instruction. Just... choice.
And it terrified him more than any system activation or magical tremor could.
Because deep down, he knew the truth: he didn't know.
Morning came in soft golds and gentle silence.
Elowen found him in the sunroom again, seated beside the long windows overlooking the garden. The skies were clear now, but the stones still glittered with the last of the rain.
She peered at him, frowning slightly. "You look like you wrestled a ghost in your sleep."
He blinked at her. "You say that like that's not a common occurrence in this house."
She gave a soft huff. "You're deflecting."
"And you're being worryingly observant," he muttered, sipping lukewarm tea.
A silence settled between them. Comfortable. Familiar.
Her gaze lingered on his hands — one still curled slightly, as if clutching something.
"You dreamt something bad," she said, not asking, but knowing.
He hesitated. "...Sort of. More strange than bad."
She turned fully to him, drawing her legs up onto the cushioned bench.
"You want to talk about it?"
His first instinct was to say no.
But he stopped himself.
"I was… in a place with mirrors," he said slowly. "They all showed me different versions of myself. Some better. Some worse. None of them… real."
Elowen watched him, quiet.
"One asked me who I want to be."
"And do you know?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"No," he admitted.
"Good," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"I think the ones who are too sure of who they are tend to become the worst people," she said with a small shrug. "Being uncertain means you're still willing to grow."
He stared at her, a little awed.
"You really should write a book of quotes one day."
"I'd rather write fiction," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That way, I can create better endings."
Later, she tugged him along again — this time to the west wing.
"To the library?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Through the library."
It turned out there was a hidden passage tucked behind a towering bookshelf of history texts. It wound around like a narrow throat of stone and opened into a tiny circular reading room — abandoned, dust-filtered, and lined with forgotten books.
Elowen ran her fingers across the shelves.
"This was my father's private retreat," she said quietly. "He loved stories."
"Was?" Caelum asked.
She nodded. "He hasn't been the same since mother passed."
There was pain there — freshly painted over, but not forgotten.
She turned, brushing off a reading bench. "We can hide here. I like the quiet."
They settled side by side, shoulders brushing again, the air between them warm and still.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
She held up a worn leather tome. "A collection of old fairy tales."
"Oh," he said. "I thought you'd be into blood magic theory or forbidden rituals."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
He gave a sly grin. "Because you look like someone who keeps ancient curses under her bed."
"I do not—" She paused. "Okay, one curse. But it's decorative."
He laughed. And she smiled again, that same rare, shy, beautiful thing.
That night, Caelum stood on his balcony, staring at the stars.
The notebook was open beside him. Blank.
He didn't write anything.
Not yet.
Instead, he whispered aloud, the charm against his chest warm and steady.
"I don't know who I want to be," he murmured. "But I know who I don't want to lose."
The breeze stirred.
And in the shadows of the room, the notebook pulsed once.
Acknowledged.
Far beyond, in the royal academy's training fields, a different boy lifted his blade toward the sky, lightning coursing through his veins.
Leonhart Everfall turned to his master and spoke with unnatural confidence:
"Something's shifted."
The man frowned. "Fate?"
Leonhart smiled thinly.
"Someone's moved off-script."